


Greetings, Doctor

by BlueVase



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Love, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:11:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueVase/pseuds/BlueVase
Summary: A steamy phone conversation between Patrick and Shelagh.TW: none, I think.





	Greetings, Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For bh, who asked me ‘a steamy (wink wink) telephone call between Shelagh and Patrick’. Hope I delivered ;). This is set in 04X06, because Patrick didn’t get to show his appreciation for Shelagh’s uniform properly (and the atmosphere wasn’t right after Shelagh’s comment about the ulcer patients). I also imagine that this is set right after 04X05. Slightly AU: Patrick has the day off. I guess this is mature content (oh my).

“Nonnatus house, midwife speaking.”

When Patrick hears is wife’s breathy voice on the other side of the line he can’t help but smile.

“Hello nurse,” he replies. He can almost hear his wife smile, too.

“Greetings, Doctor,” she says. God, he loves her Scottish lilt. “Patrick, is something wrong? Is Angela…?” she then asks, her voice soft. He can imagine her brow knitting together, two faint lines forming.

“Angela is perfectly fine, and so am I. Although… You were gone so quickly this morning. I didn’t even get to kiss you goodbye properly,” he says, a faintly accusative tone in his voice.

“I’m afraid that babies don’t take things like that into consideration. Now, dear, if nothing is wrong you really need to put the phone down. I don’t want for someone to ring us, only to find that they can’t reach us because you’re on the line.’

“Oh, but there is something wrong. I’m terribly hungry.”

“There’s some leftover roast from yesterday. I’ve put in the oven. You can warm it up,” she says, always eager to be helpful. Patrick can’t help but laugh. His little wife is so innocent at times.

“That’s… not what I meant. Though I would love it if you came home and make me something to eat in that nurse’s uniform you’re currently wearing.”

“You like it, then?”

“Oh, definitely. Though if truth be told I prefer to see you without a stitch on your body.” Does that make her blush? He hopes it does; he can imagine that pretty pink colour nesting itself in her cheeks.

“Patrick…” she begins, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“I imagine how I take that frilly cap from your head when you come home. I’ll pull out your hairpins one by one, and finger every lock of hair that tumbles down. I’ll kiss you whilst I untie your apron. This kiss will start out all sweet and soft, a butterfly kiss really, but then it will deepen till you see stars and are gasping for breath.”

“Me? You’re the one who smokes like a chimney.”

“Yes, but you had TB. Anyway, I’ll then unbutton your uniform and place kisses on every bit of skin where those buttons rested.”

“I… I’ll be wearing my slip,” she whispers.

“Right. Well, in that case I’ll just unbutton your uniform whilst plundering your mouth. It will be a hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue and want. I’ll drag your slip over your head and then I’ll place kisses on the places where those buttons were just a few moments ago.” He smiles against the black mouthpiece of the phone as he realises that Shelagh’s breathing has sped up slightly.

“And then?” she asks.

“Well, I imagine that I’ll hug you tight so I can appreciate the warmth of your skin. I guess you’ll kiss me, then, and wrap your legs around me because your knees are on the point of giving out. I’ve made you weak like a piece of elastic. You’ll dig your heels into my thighs, and that will make me want to kiss you again. I’ll place my hand on your buttocks instead– those very firm buttocks, thanks to all the cycling you did – to support you, and carry you out of the hallway and place you unto the table, and…”

“I hope you’ve drawn the curtains,” she murmurs.

“Of course, dear. No one will see. Well, I guess that you’re only wearing your shoes and stockings and unmentionables at this point, but that’s still too much clothing for my taste. I’ll start with you shoes.”

“I can take care of those myself.” Her voice has suddenly become more business-like; Patrick guesses there’s someone with her. The thought excites him.

“You can kick them off at any point, I dare say. So, I’ve got you on the kitchen table. I’ll kneel down in front of you and you’ll put one of your legs on my shoulder so I can kiss the soft part on the inside of your knee. Then I’ll fumble a bit with the clasps of your garter belt. It’ll take me some time to undo those clasps. You’ll think it is because of my trembling fingers, but I’m doing it on purpose, really, because I like the soft sounds you make and the way you sigh as my fingertips brush the inside of your thigh.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’ll roll the stocking of your right leg down first and tickle your foot. The left stocking will follow, but this time I’ll let my teeth graze the skin of your ankle.”

“I… would like that,” Shelagh breathes. Her voice is deeper than he is used to. He smirks.

“I bet you do. Well, I’ll let those stockings fall to the floor in a crumpled mess, and then I’ll unhook your brassiere and kiss your breasts, first the left, then the right. They’ll need the same amount of attention, because we can’t have one getting jealous. After that I guess it becomes time for you to undress me. You’re mad with desire at this point, of course. I’ll make sure I won’t wear a tie.”

“That seems appropriate,” she murmurs. Her breath hitches on the final word.

“Still, you’ll want to undress me speedily, so you’ll rip my shirt from my body, sending buttons flying…”

“Patrick Turner, I’ll do no such thing. Do you have any idea how much time it costs to put those buttons on again?” she says, her voice suddenly stern. Patrick laughs.

“Maybe you’ll undo the top few buttons and drag my shirt over my head because you don’t want to rip the buttons off, but you don’t have the patience to unbutton them all. Better?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll open my belt at the same time and kick my shoes off. My trousers and pants will follow. I’ll drag you to the edge of the table and step between your legs. My need for you will be very obvious by now, so we’ll…”

“You’re forgetting something,” she whispers. Her voice is thick with desire; Patrick wonders if there’s still someone else with her in the room, and if this person can hear it, too.

“What?”

“I’m still wearing my knickers at this point.” She speaks so softly that he almost doesn’t catch the words.

“Ah. That’s right. What do you suggest we do about those?”

“We’ll think of something when the time comes,” Shelagh says a lot louder now. The other person has come back, he guesses. Patrick wishes that he could see her in this moment, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, her cheeks probably flushed and her eyes shining; she’ll probably have a hard time concealing it from the other nurses and nuns.

“Certainly,” he accedes.

“Is there anything else you need?” Her tone is brisk and business-like again; she has to hang up soon, he conjectures.

“You in my arms. I really am very hungry, and you know that I’m a terrible cook.”

“I’ll come right away.”

X

When he hears the door open he steps into the hallway, prepared to greet his wife with a proper snog. He is unprepared for the way she hurls herself at him and has to take a step back to prevent himself from being bowled over. Her mouth is on his before he can say anything. She takes off her frilly cap with one swift tug. Bobby pins fall from her hair as it spills down over her shoulders.

“Shelagh,” Patrick says. She pushes him against the wall and kisses him again, hard. Her hands unbutton his vest and push his britches from his shoulders, then start on the buttons of his shirt. Patrick can’t do anything but marvel at the whirlwind that is his wife. He knows that Shelagh has her bold moments every now and then, but she has taken him completely by surprise this time. Their conversation on the phone was mainly him teasing her; he didn’t expect her to embrace his plan with such fervour. Their lovemaking tends to be gentle and sweet, fuelled by respect and their mutual affection. Now, it seems that it will be fuelled by passion. Patrick realises that there are things about his wife he doesn’t know. He thought he would ravish her, but now he’s no longer sure if he’s going to be the one to do the ravishing.

“Shelagh, this isn’t exactly how we discussed this would go,” he says. She looks up at him. Her pupils are fully dilated and her eyes glitter like stars.

“I’m afraid that ‘we’ didn’t discuss anything, dearest. You performed a monologue; I didn’t get to say much,” she breathes and places kisses on his chest.

“Then why didn’t you….?”

“Because Sister Evangelina was in the room with me.”

“Ah. What did you say to her?”

“I told her you and Angela have some type of stomach bug. Where’s Angela?”

“Asleep. I’ve just fed her.” Patrick wants to say more, but his wife doesn’t let him; she brushes his ears with her fingertips, sending shudders through his body. The way the corners of her mouth tilt upwards reminds him more of a smirk than a smile. He retaliates by crushing her against him, his hands on her buttocks. Her head drops back, revealing her creamy throat. He trails a path of kisses on her porcelain skin. She threads her hand through his hair.

“You said you’ve wanted to make love to me this morning,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“When I saw you looking so happy and healthy again I wanted that, too. I wanted you to take me on the kitchen table, or pin me against the wall.” Patrick feels mildly shocked at this confession. He suddenly understands her comment about the ulcer clinic; clearly, she needed to distract herself from other thoughts. Shelagh takes his face between her hands and looks at him. Her face has become serious.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Patrick. The past few days it felt as if you were a ship that had lost its mooring, floating further and further away from me,” she says.

“But you were my lighthouse, or the wind blowing me back to shore. I’m sorry, darling,” Patrick says and places a kiss on her forehead.

“Oh, shush, you silly man. You were ill; don’t apologise for such a thing every again.” He opens his mouth to say something, but she invades his mouth and swallows his words. When they break apart to catch their breath the smile that is more like a smirk ghosts over her face again.

“Now, Doctor Turner, I clearly recall you saying something about preferring to see me without a uniform,” she says, one eyebrow tilted upwards.

“Without a stitch, darling,” he corrects her.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“What, indeed?” he says, and sweeps her up in his arms.


End file.
